Amy Russo is an artist. But I don't believe her work is all that popular. Each night she walks into our little flat so very downcast and prepares herself one of those drinks of hers. Sometimes she doesn't even notice me sitting on the counter like I do every evening. Tonight she did, though. Tonight was quite unusual. She walked in and offered me a weak smile. "Well, hello, Gentleman," she said. She scratched between my ears and went to her painting by the window. "Not very good, is it?" she asked me. I jumped onto the table to get a better look. I thought it was one of her best ones. It was an image of tuxedoed cat just like me looking out the window. I personally found the painting very intriguing and colorful. But, what's a cat to know about what humans like? She sighed and went to prepare her drink.

I was curled up in the sink when the knock came. Who would come visiting at this late hour? I couldn't hold in my curiosity, so I stood by Amy's feet as she answered the door. Standing there was no other than Tugger's owner—erm, I mean, Amy's ex-tomfriend. They immediately commenced some sort of shouting match and I decided not to get involved this time. Usually I send sparks on his feet or hiss at him, but tonight I was tired. That tom, he may be Tugger's owner, but he's quite the ass hole.